Rosie’s car tunneled through darkness. Sheets of rain swept over the windshield, sparkling in her headlights, mesmeric. The lane was narrow with high wooded banks on either side, making it impossible to drive fast. It was late on Sunday night and she was tired out, body and soul.
She was glad to be returning to college. The last few days had been surreal; the sky behind Stonegate Manor blazing with blue lights and sirens one night, police swarming over the estate, a flow of horrible rumors—an intruder stabbed and strangled to death, Sam under arrest.
Cloudcroft was in shock. Sympathy for his son’s arrest was tempered by dislike of Lawrence and Sam’s reputation. There were debates in the media about homeowners’ rights to defend their property. Weeping relatives appeared on the TV news declaring that “Gary was no angel, but ’e was trying to get off the drugs. ’E didn’t deserve to die.”
Lucas had been restless and moody. Rosie had never known him to argue so much with Jessica as he had today. “I can’t understand why they won’t let me see Jon,” he’d kept saying. “He must be having a hellish time. Surely he needs his friends. What’s wrong with them?”
“It’s their decision.” Even Jessica was frazzled. “If it had happened to us, I’d want to shut myself away, too. Let them deal with it. What if you and Jon had been at Stonegate that night? I can’t bear to think of it!”
“Well, we weren’t,” Lucas had said defiantly, so unlike his usual self. And then Matthew couldn’t resist joining in, saying that the Wilders were all mad, a road crash waiting to happen, and the only wonder was that Sam hadn’t pulled a stunt like this before.
In the end, Rosie had thrown her clothes into a bag and driven off. Her small Volkswagen, a birthday gift from her father, gave her that freedom; strange freedom, to escape the home she loved. But she needed peace, soil under her fingernails, rooks cawing and dryads whispering in the trees above her. Even their green-eyed gossip was preferable to her family at the moment.
Much as Rosie distrusted Lawrence, she felt sympathy for him. And for Jon, of course, and Sapphire… even a little for Sam himself. What a hopeless, horrible mess.
The car bounced on potholes as the lane wormed through the night. A shape moved, just beyond the range of her headlights. A deer in the road? No one would be out so late in this weather. She slowed down but saw nothing through wavering sheets of rain.
Then a shambling figure peeled out of the shadows and staggered in front of her. She yelped and stamped on the brakes. In the eerie rain-light of her headlamps she glimpsed wild hair, a gaunt face. Swerving for good measure, she narrowly missed the man, skidding as he lurched aside. Disheveled and feral, the figure turned to watch her as the flank of her car slid past.
Quickly checking her mirrors, she saw that he was still on his feet, unharmed. He swayed in the middle of the lane, shapeless in a dark overcoat, hair dripping. A tramp. Drunk or drugged, and staggering god-knows-where. Rosie put her foot down and accelerated away. She was too shaken and scared to stop. At least she hadn’t killed him, only given both herself and him a hellish fright. However, he was still out there, wandering towards the isolated cottage. Great.
She pulled into the driveway. There were no other cars, no lights on. It looked as if her house mates wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Checking that no one was lurking in the garden, she leaped out and locked the car, ran to the front door and struggled in a fumbling panic to get her key into the lock.
She was inside. Door closed, locked—then she went around switching on every light. She took her bag upstairs; checked each small, crooked bedroom for intruders—feeling foolish, but compelled to do it. Downstairs again, she put music on, filled the kettle. No; wine was in order.
It’s at this point, she thought, that someone cuts the electric and phone cables.
No, she told herself, taking deep breaths. This isn’t a film. Calm down, idiot.
Her panic eased, but she stayed on edge, aware of the false cheer of light and music, the size of the night. Please don’t let him come to the cottage, she thought. He might only want shelter, but there was no guarantee he was harmless.
Trying to act normally, she pulled off her boots and settled on the sofa with a full glass. The familiar room with its flaky white walls, ancient rugs and sagging furniture felt cold and shabby.
There was a knock at the door.
“Shit!” she yelped and shot bolt upright, spilling wine all over herself.
Should she turn out the lights out and pretend no one was home? Too late. Her skin crawled. Perhaps if she passed him some money through the letterbox to go away… Another knock. She swore, angrily willing him to leave.
“Rosie!” came a thin voice she didn’t recognize. More thumping. “Rosie, open up, it’s only me!”
Confused, she warily went to the door. She made sure the chain was on, took a breath, and opened it. The tramp stood on the doorstep. Shabby coat, stringy hair, rain running down ghostly skin, eyes deep with shadow.
The tramp was Jon.
“Can I come in?” he said. “Is it okay?”
Speechless, she took off the chain and let the damp apparition over her threshold. He stood dripping on the carpet, sniffing and pushing his hand through his hair. He looked dreadful. His face was haggard, eyes sunk in brown shadow. He wasn’t drunk; just tired and desperate, perhaps ill. Rosie was so shocked she couldn’t move.
“What are you doing here?” she said at last.
“Is it all right? You don’t mind, do you?” He lurched toward the sofa, nearly tripping on the curled-up edge of a rug.
“No, of course not—hang on, let me take your coat,” she said as he made to sit down in the wet garment. “It’s such a surprise.” The coat weighed a ton.
As she hung it on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, a smell of damp and smoke wafted from it. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
“No, really, it’s all right. Was that you”—she waved at the outside world—“walking down the lane?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t find a bus. Didn’t realize how far it was.”
“Oh god, I nearly ran you over. I’m so sorry. If I’d known it was you, I would have stopped.”
“’Sall right.” Jon dragged his hand through the strings of hair again, a nervous gesture. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, shaking his head. He seemed twitchy, one knee bouncing under his elbow.
“Really?” she said cautiously. “Why on earth didn’t you come to Oakholme?”
“You must be joking. I couldn’t face anyone there. Wasn’t thinking straight, anyway… I just went.”
“Oh… Do you want a cup of tea?”
“The wine looks good.”
“No problem.” She rushed to fetch a glass and the bottle, nearly tripping up the step from the kitchen as she came back.
“Thanks,” he said, and half-emptied the glass without drawing breath. Rosie sat on the arm of the sofa, watching him. She had no idea what to say or do. The person she’d pined for with such desire and adoration for all these years—this wasn’t him, and yet it was. She couldn’t imagine anything less appropriate than making a pass at him now.
“You must have been having a dreadful time,” she said gently. “It’s all so stupid,” Jon muttered.
“The guy that died—he said he knew me. I don’t remember, he wasn’t from college. Maybe he came to see the band, that’s all. But my father went mad, blaming me…”
“I’m sorry. That’s horrible.”
“I couldn’t stand it at home any longer.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
He hesitated, shaking and pushing his hair back only for it to fall forward again. “Yes, I need to ask you a favor, a really big favor.”
“Of course.” Rosie felt overwhelmed that he was even here. His sorry state provoked a wave of protective love. “Anything.”
“You heard about Sam?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry. It must be so hard for you and your family.”
“He’s in jail on remand, and they sent him to Yorkshire because the local prisons were full. The thing is, I’m supposed to be visiting him tomorrow, and…” Jon shivered. “He refuses to see my father or Sapphire, so there’s only me. Luc and me, we thought it was ecologically friendly not to own cars or learn to drive, but now it’s just a bloody nuisance.”
“Do you want me to take you?” Rosie offered with ready warmth. She was already planning every detail. She’d drive Jon to the prison, wait for him, console him when he came out again. They would have time alone in the car together, perhaps a stop for supper on the way back…
“I can’t face it,” Jon was saying, oblivious of her thoughts. “I just can’t do it, Rosie. I couldn’t bear to see him locked up in there. I wondered… would you go instead? For me?”
“Instead? Can I do that? I thought you needed a visiting order, or something.”
“No, it’s all right. On remand, anyone can see him until he gets sentenced… if he does… Please. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I just can’t.”
She was startled and dismayed. He looked so wretched that she couldn’t refuse. “So you,” she struggled, “you don’t want to come with me?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking crushed with misery. “I would if I could, but I can’t face it.”
“It’s all right,” she heard herself saying. “Don’t worry. If you feel like that, of course I’ll go.” He rewarded her with a smile of such relief and gratitude that her heart swelled. She was a pushover. Anything for him.
* * *
The closer Rosie drew to the prison, the bleaker the landscape grew, as if some dark lord of fantasy had scoured the land. It was on the north edge of the Yorkshire Moors, a good four hours’ drive. Her small car steamed bravely on. A sharp headwind slowed her speed and she felt isolated, exposed and tiny, with the peat and heather of the landscape sweeping to the horizon in every direction. But she was doing this for Jon, proving the depth of her love even if he never loved her back.
He’d spent the night in the room next to hers and she’d barely slept, conscious of him so close to her but untouchable. This morning he’d emerged looking exhausted, refusing breakfast, only smiling wanly at her as she left.
He looked absolutely broken down with guilt. At least she’d persuaded him to take a shower.
On the outskirts of a small town, signs appeared for the prison. She followed the route through the charming old town center into an estate of seventies houses. Then came runs of electrified fencing topped with barbed wire, rows of floodlights. And looming through the storm-light, the walls of the prison itself. She’d visualized a grey edifice on the moors, all gothic towers and tiny barred windows. Instead she was confronted by a vast modern expanse of sandy-colored bricks. The sweep of the wall took her breath away, stretching upwards and onwards forever, blank, institutional and deadly serious.
Rosie quailed. She could hardly blame Jon for not wanting to come. If not for him she would have turned the car around and fled. Instead she drove to the barrier, showed her ID and was waved through.
She parked in the visitors’ area and began to walk slowly towards studded iron doors. She felt cold, dizzy with dread. The fortress sucked her in, one gate, one security check after another, and with each step she was more aware of the weight of brick and metal around her.
A female officer searched her, sweeping her over with a wand then patting her clothes as she explained the rules. Rosie looked around at the tired, sad faces of other visitors and realized what a sheltered life she’d led. This was all so mundane and yet hostile, soul-stealing.
“That way,” said the officer. At that moment, Rosie was seized by a hallucination. The woman’s face changed; the skin turning to scales, eyes bright green and lidless. Shock struck her dumb. “First time, love?” the woman said. “Don’t look so worried.” As she spoke, she turned human again, with a pleasant, weathered face, curly brown hair.
“Yes,” Rosie managed to say.
“Husband, is he?” Her voice was reassuring, full of seen-it-all worldliness. “Boyfriend?”
“No! Just a—a neighbor, really. He’s got no one else.”
“Well, that’s kind of you.” The guard’s face gave another human-to-demon flicker. “All clear on the regs? Good. Follow the others and give your name to the officer on the door.”
“Thank you.” The featureless corridor trembled around Rosie. She could taste the tension in the air. She heard the voices of other visitors farther ahead; but as she turned a corner, the corridor was empty. It looked all wrong.
The light turned dim and she felt the floor shaking as if from the rumble of underground machinery. This isn’t the surface world, Rosie thought as she walked on, and I’ve never seen the Dusklands like this… She glimpsed narrow tunnel mouths glowing with red fire. Lights strung along the walls emitted an ominous hum. The stench was of stale urine, sweat and disinfectant, laced with cabbage.
She entered a smoky grey cavernous space with an officer waiting just inside. With his reptilian face and bright green eyes, he didn’t even try to look human. She held her nerve as he summoned her in. “Table four, love.”
She took a step, and the visiting room shook itself square, with white walls, barred windows, red plastic-topped tables.
Another few steps and the room warped again. The transitions were making her dizzy. Now the room resembled a dusty medieval cathedral filled with small round tables. Each table had two chairs like gothic thrones, most occupied by translucent human ghosts. The hubbub of voices echoed off the high vault of the ceiling. Looking up, she caught an impression of convoluted arches far above, with bats or tiny demons fluttering in the sooty shadows.
Rosie’s mouth was ash-dry. These illusions felt so real and solid. Prisoners, visitors… they looked far away, as if seen through gauze. She found her table and sat down. The gothic seat and table were bleached and cracked like driftwood.
Around the walls were alcoves occupied by gargoyles wrapped in dark leather wings… not statues, but living guards.
It’s all right, she scolded herself. I’m Aetherial. Weird things happen.
Then she saw Sam threading his way towards her through the crowd. Slender, light on his feet, wearing a green prison tabard over grey T-shirt and jeans. His hair had been cropped close to his skull, which emphasized the sculpture of his face. He was all cheekbones and bright, dazzling blue-green eyes. The eyes were beacons against the monochrome of the walls.
Seeing her, he stopped in his tracks. He stared, gave a silent laugh of amazement. Rosie stood up and waited for him to reach her. “Rosie? What on earth are you doing here? Where’s Jon?”
He stood gaping at her. His obvious astonishment and pleasure embarrassed her. He smiled, his teeth as white and feral as ever. “Who cares where he is?” he added. “I can’t believe it.”
She had absolutely no idea what to say. Her throat was burning. Sam went on staring. “It’s amazing to see you.” He glanced quickly around, and down at himself. “Not that I ever wanted you to see me like this.” An officer took a warning step towards them. “Oh—sit down.”
The gargoyle folded into its alcove again as Sam and Rosie took seats on opposite sides of the table. She couldn’t find her tongue, wished herself anywhere but in this nightmare place. “They don’t like you standing up,” Sam explained. “No touching, kissing, hugging or passing items, either.”
“Well, none of that’s going to happen,” she said.
“No, of course not.” He folded his arms and gazed at her. His eyes were lasers. “You must have had a hell of a journey. They’ll bring tea round; fifty pence a cup, though, sorry about that.”
“No problem. I can raise a pound.”
“I dreamed about seeing you. Never thought it would be in this situation.”
“I don’t know,” she said thinly. “It suits you.”
“Cheers. I should have expected that.” He spread his hands, still grinning. “Abuse me all you like, I enjoy it.”
“I’ll do my best.” Rosie wanted to be fair and helpful, but she was struggling. She didn’t trust Sam on any level. She didn’t know him. His rapt attention made her uneasy, needling through her defenses. One minute of conversation and they were falling into the usual pattern of sarcasm; but perhaps it was better than pretending. “Am I your first visitor?”
“Dad came once. It was horrible. I told him not to bother again. I can’t believe you’re here. So, how come? I didn’t know you cared.”
“I care about your brother,” she said. “Jon asked me. He said he couldn’t face it, so I’m here instead as a favor to him.”
“Right.” The light went out of Sam’s eyes and he looked away from her. “At least we cleared that one up. The one member of my family I could face seeing, and he can’t get off his backside to make the effort. But you’d crawl across Death Valley and stick your head in a tar pit—as long as it’s for him. Figures.”
“He was scared,” Rosie said sharply. “He lost his nerve.”
“He knew you’d do anything for him. He knew I’d be pleased to see you. He’s really a monumental creep and archmanipulator; I’m bloody impressed.”
“He was distraught! If you’d seen him—” Rosie sighed through her teeth. “Great, so I’ve driven two hundred miles to listen to this for an hour?”
Another prisoner leaned between them, so sudden and quiet that she nearly jumped out of her skin. He placed two teas on the table. The reek of sweat from his armpit as he leaned over nearly knocked her out. Behind him, reality and illusion morphed in and out, mundane to cobwebbed gothic.
“Thanks,” she whispered, giving him money and holding her breath until he moved away. Sam grinned at her.
“You’ve never been here before, have you?”
“Prison?” she said. The tea, served in Styrofoam cups, was scalding and full of sugar. “No. My family manages to stay on the right side of the law.”
“Not prison,” he said, the grin darkening. “Dumannios.”
She put the cup down, spilling it. “We’re in Dumannios?”
“The lower layer of the Dusklands, gone bad. The home of nightmares, living gargoyles, pseudo-demons and burning cathedrals. Molten lava and hellfire. Great, isn’t it?”
Rosie looked around at the dripping fortress walls, the ashen guards. It wasn’t exactly fear she felt but intense, cosmic unease. She thought of stormy skies and boiling black clouds, the moors stretching forever outside, miles of electric fencing sizzling in sulfurous rain. The dead eyes of the staff, their skin sucked dry by the heat of volcanic vents. The whole prison edifice trembling over a lake of fire.
“Oh, fuck,” she whispered.
“Although, if you’ve been in Stonegate, you can’t be that surprised.”
“I suppose not, but I’ve never been trapped inside it like this.”
“Hey, don’t panic.” Sam reached across the table and touched her hand; Rosie snatched it away. “They say it’s a perception thing. Stuff that’s always there but we don’t see it. I’m sure you can drive out, same as you arrived. It’s only the inmates who are stuck here.”
“How?” she said. “The others look human. And how can humans build a prison in Dumannios?”
“Oh, it was built in the real world. I reckon the other inmates and visitors are looking at plain walls and fluorescent strips and cheap plastic tables. I catch glimpses. It’s only Aetherials who are stuck with the deeper dimensions and the H. P. Lovecraft nasties.”
Her eyes widened. “Is it just you? Us, I mean?”
“There are a couple of other Vaethyr in here,” he said softly. “And yes, we all get the slimy dungeons and interesting visits from the night staff who no one else sees.”
“All the time?”
“No, but the unpredictability factor makes it that bit more exciting.”
“Why is it happening?”
“I have no bleeding idea, love.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrow. “Some sort of shadowy Spiral Court justice, I think. The Ancients don’t like us stirring it on Earth, so we get a double punishment. Things go on in the inner realms that we don’t have the faintest clue about. Jon had every right to be scared.”
“I don’t think he knew it would be this bad.”
“Maybe not. Gates are locked, it messes up our instincts.”
“Are you here until the trial?”
“Apparently. I was refused bail. I’ve had issues with the police before, and this time someone died. Also, they seemed to think I might skip off abroad again.”
“Any idea how it will go?”
“I’m looking at five years for manslaughter,” Sam said bluntly. “Probably get out in three. You were hoping I’d say life, weren’t you? Sorry to disappoint.”
“Of course I wasn’t.” Cold, delayed shock sank through her. “It’s not fair, is it? You were defending your family.”
“D’you know, if we were in America, it would have been okay for me to shoot him? But not here. Apparently I used unreasonable force. Dragging the guy back into the house when he was trying to escape; never a good idea. Helping him along with a bit of strangulation while he was bleeding to death; not advisable. Plus, I have a record.”
Rosie sat back in her chair, looking at him. Sam had a beautiful, cruel face, like his father. His eyes were jewels, glittering and glacial. He’d never seemed to give a damn about anything, even himself; and for that she couldn’t warm to him. Even now he was sitting there trying to make himself look as wicked as possible, purely to shock her.
She didn’t realize she had any kind of expression on her face until he said, “You really hate me, don’t you? It must be killing you to sit here trying to be social.”
“I’ve had better days.”
“I don’t know why you bothered. Jon won’t be a tiny bit grateful.”
“I’m not doing it for gratitude,” she snapped.
“Just in it for the martyrdom, then?” He sat back with a groan as if giving up. Then impulsively he leaned forward again. “Rosie, maybe I’m a masochist, but I think the world of you. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and you’ve got no idea. You think it’s any fun for me to sit here being loathed by you? I’m in love with you.”
“You’re what?” She gaped at him, completely thrown. “You have to be kidding.”
“No, I’m not.” He leaned closer, his expression luminous with sincerity; but he was such an actor, she didn’t believe him for a split second. “I mean it.”
“You don’t love me—you don’t know me! I haven’t even seen you for four years! I didn’t come here to play stupid games.”
“I’m not.” He drew back. “I wish I could have done things differently so you weren’t sitting there despising me. I’d rather have hostile Rosie than no Rosie at all—but this isn’t you. It’s not the real you.”
“Tough. It’s all you’re getting. You don’t love me, you’re just nuts from being in this place.”
“That must be it,” he said flatly, making her more annoyed.
“‘Unreasonable force,’ that’s the story of your life! You wonder why I don’t like you? D’you want a list?” She swept her hair aside to expose her neck. “I’ve still got the scar from the first time we met.”
He winced. “I’m sorry.”
“You stole from me, beat up my brother, threatened me, lied to me—”
“When did I lie?”
“You told me Jon was gay! God knows what you’ve told him about me!”
“Come on, teasing—”
“No. A decent person knows the difference. You’ve bullied and beaten people and you set the Pit Bull on me.”
“The who?”
“That little tattooed biker you used to go out with.”
His forehead creased. He looked part guilty, part amused. “You mean Sue? You called her the Pit Bull? That’s priceless.”
“Oh yes, it was bloody priceless being set on by her and her mates!”
“Rosie,” said Sam. “Two things. Try to smile and look happy while you’re hissing at me so the warders don’t intervene. Second, I did not set Sue on you. She knew it was you I really wanted and she was jealous. I had no idea she was planning to hurt you. I was horrified, but you never gave me a chance to make amends. I told her what I thought and I dumped her, end of story. By the way, you do know you terrified the crap out of her, don’t you?”
“Good! You keep such great company, too.”
Sam waved a hand. “Look around; you’ve got me where you’ve always wanted me. I’m doing my penance now. Give me a break.”
She gasped, “Do you even care that you actually killed someone?”
“Can I tell you what happened?” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, face serious, eyes shining.
“About the murder?”
“I didn’t murder anyone!” he exclaimed. “Manslaughter!” People at the neighboring tables fell silent and looked. “What?” said Sam, turning to them. “Our conversation more interesting than yours, is it? Fine, pull up a chair!”
They all looked away and resumed muttering. Rosie dropped her head onto one hand. “All right,” she said. “I’ll give you a break. Tell me.”
“I came home and there was a burglar,” he said very quietly. “He was about to go upstairs and do god-knows-what to my father. I didn’t even know if Jon or anyone else was in the house. What was I supposed to do? So I tried to stop him and he attacked me. I’d like to tell you that the magical mist of Dumannios came down and turned us into demons, but it didn’t. It was just ugly.
“He had a huge knife. If I hadn’t got the knife off him, I’d have been dead—and I didn’t intend to stab him, but it happened.” Sam leaned farther forward. She strained to hear him, moving closer but looking at the tabletop, not at his face. She felt his breath on her ear. “He tried to get away by throwing himself through a window, so I pulled him back and throttled him. Don’t suppose you’ve ever experienced the red mist like that? Only he was ten times more scared than me, and that’s why he fought so hard and why I ended up killing him. What do I tell the court, except the truth? He took the knife from our kitchen so I can’t prove he had it first. It was only when he lay bleeding and my father put the light on that I realized what I’d done.”
In the eerie light, all color bled out of his face “I’m not very good at remorse,” he added. “But I didn’t get up that morning intending to kill anyone, Rosie, I swear.”
“You were defending your family,” she said.
“If I’d let him go, so he bled to death on our lawn instead of on our carpet, I might have gotten away with it. But I didn’t, because I was too furious at this fucking toe-rag for invading our house. So, five years looks pretty lenient. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Rosie groaned. “What are you angling for, forgiveness or condemnation? Part of me thinks it’s completely unfair, because he shouldn’t have been there. Part of me thinks that if you hadn’t ended up here for this, it would have been for something else.”
“God, you really think I’m that scummy, don’t you?”
“Don’t pull that face,” she said. “Anyone could see it coming.”
“And you’re probably right.”
“What are you going to do when you get out?” she asked angrily. “Carry on as you have been until you finally talk yourself into a life sentence?”
“Rosie,” he said acidly, “can you guess what I was doing while I was away? Not beating, robbing or murdering anyone. I was trying to forget about bloody Stonegate and being a flaming Aetherial. I’ve been picking olives, oranges, apricots, you name it, I’ve picked it. Then I come home, filial duty and all that, and I walk into this.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say. This situation is crap for everyone.”
She folded her arms and looked away, but from the corner of her eye she saw his regard on her, cool and steady. “Don’t let’s talk about it anymore,” he said. “How are you? What have you been doing? How’s your little brother?”
She let her arms drop and composed herself. Arguing with him was pointless and yet it was incredibly hard to stop, like the excruciating thrill of scratching a rash. “Luc’s fine, but he doesn’t say much about… you know. We’ve all got used to the idea now, but it was a hell of a shock at the time. You probably thought it was a big laugh, and I expect you’ve known for years.”
“What are you talking about?” said Sam. She frowned at him. “Lawrence telling Lucas that he’s his father, of course.”
“What?”
He looked genuinely confused. Rosie’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Oh my god, they haven’t told you? All this time and they haven’t—?”
“You tell me. I have absolutely no clue what you’re on about.”
She began, then shook her head. “No. You know, all right. You’re just playing games.”
“Rosie, I swear to all the gods I’m not! All we’ve talked about is my stupid trial! My father said what to Lucas?”
A bell shrilled. The physical shock seemed to tear loose a veil, and she suddenly saw the room in its square, banal reality, with ordinary prison officers standing about. This time the change held. Only Sam looked the same. “Five minutes, ladies and gentlemen, thank you,” said an officer. “That was never an hour,” Sam said, jumping to his feet. “Rosie, please tell me.”
There was noise around them as chairs were pushed back and tearful farewells made. Rosie tried to speak over the hubbub. “Apparently Lawrence had a fling with my mother—look, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“Fuck!” said Sam. “This is crazy. You can’t just tell me that and walk out.”
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” came the command. Rosie glanced around at the glaring lights, disoriented. Sam saw her expression.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Go out the way you came, don’t look back, and you’ll be fine. Thanks for coming.”
“It’s okay.”
“Rosie, you have got to come back and finish the story,” he added softly. “Please.”
She hesitated. “No,” she said firmly, turning away. “It’s your family you need to see, not me.”
* * *
When Rosie reached the cottage that evening, Jon was still there. He looked better, eyes bright and skin radiant, and he’d washed and combed his hair back to shiny chestnut glory. He thanked her profusely for making the journey.
“Is it all right if I stay the night again?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, stunned. “Stay as long as you like. I’m knackered. Let me freshen up then I’ll tell you all about it.”
She ran upstairs, showered, dressed in her best peasant skirt and clingy black top. She dabbed her mouth with lip gloss, brushed out her hair to a softly swinging, burnished veil and had to admit that, for a ten-minute make over, she looked okay. However horrible the situation, she couldn’t return to Jon looking a wreck.
As she left the bathroom, she bumped into Clive, one of her housemates. “Wow, look at you,” he said. “Is that for”—he aimed his thumb at the stairs—“your boyfriend down there? Lucky him.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. Just a friend.”
“Right.” Clive gave an insinuating grin and a wink. “Mind you, he’s a bit strange, isn’t he? Looked like he’d slept in a hedge. Just lay on the sofa all day.”
“Has he had anything to eat?”
“Jill did him some soup. Doesn’t say much, does he?”
“He’s having a difficult time. His brother’s in prison.”
“You go and take his mind off it, then.” Clive gave her a conspiratorial pat on the shoulder. “I’ll keep the others down the pub for a while, know what I mean?”
“You’re a saint,” she said.
Rosie opened a bottle of wine, sat beside Jon all swinging hair and perfumed skin. She felt spacey with tiredness, yet managed to be cheerful and consoling as she told Jon about the visit—giving him a selectively edited version without gargoyles, hellfire or sniping—in the hope that he would feel better. She moved closer as she answered his questions. She became the warmest, most seductive Rosie she could possibly be. If love would comfort him, she was ready to do anything.
Jon did not respond at all. He didn’t even seem to notice. He looked pale, preoccupied and shivery. She felt as sexy as a block of wood.
“You’re so good to do this,” he told her. “I’m sorry, d’you mind if I go to bed? I can’t keep awake.”
She jumped up. “Urm, there’s only my room to night. Everyone’s home, so no spare beds.”
“I can sleep on the sofa.”
“No, you can’t. They’ll come in from the pub, make a noise and sit watching TV for hours. And it’s freezing down here. Come on. This way.”
She led Jon upstairs to her tiny room. She felt unreal. She’d dreamed for years of doing this and it was nothing like the dream, nothing. They stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking at the narrow bed. Moonlight dazzled through the window.
“I can sleep on the floor,” he said.
“No, no,” said Rosie, “you have the bed. You’re obviously not well.”
“Thanks. Getting a cold, I think. There’s probably room for us both, anyway,” he said. “Yes, come on Rosie, we’ll both fit in there fine.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll just, er…” She went to the bathroom, cleaned her teeth and slipped into blue cotton pyjamas. She was shaking. This was surreal.
When she returned to the bedroom, Jon was already asleep. He lay in her bed, on his side facing away from her. Jon, naked in her bed.
He was so thin that he left acres of space and she could easily lie beside him without touching him. She couldn’t sleep a wink. The room felt close and alien. She lay there listening to her house mates coming in, messing about, finally going to bed. Then the cottage was quiet, but she was wide awake.
Rosie sat up and looked at Jon. The bronze waves of his hair spread over the pillow and down his back. She’d never seen him naked before and he really was slender, barely a hint of muscle on his body. Every notch of his spine showed. His skin looked colorless.
She reached out stroked the silk of his hair. Her hand touched his shoulder. He twitched but didn’t wake. His skin felt cold and clammy; he had hardly any scent, except the faintest hint of fresh sweat.
What would he do if she turned him over and started kissing him? Would he fight her off with protests that he didn’t feel like that about her? Or would she awaken some sleeping serpent of passion, make him realize what he’d been missing?
The most disturbing thing of all was that she didn’t want to.
He looked vulnerable. He looked unhealthy. She just… couldn’t.
Rosie slipped off the bed and went downstairs. It had been an experiment, the sexy clothes, the perfumed hair; something she’d had to try, even though her heart had not been in it. She looked back on it with a stale taste in her mouth. If you truly love someone, she thought, shouldn’t you love them no matter what?
She spent the rest of the night on the sofa, hugging her knees to her chest. Perhaps she slept, but when morning came she could only remember staring at the darkness.
* * *
When Jon appeared the next morning, he didn’t comment on her absence from bed. He was quiet, nervous and kept sniffing. He refused Rosie’s offers of tea or coffee. “You know, if you’ve got a cold, you need fluids.”
“Have you got any cola? I need the sugar,” he said with a wan smile.
“Clive might. I can’t stand the stuff. Very unhealthy.”
“I’ll be okay. I’ve really got to go.”
She rose, worried now. “I think you should stay in bed. You look awful.”
“God, will you stop fussing?” he said with a flash of temper she’d never seen before. “You’re worse than Sapphire. I have to go.”
Rosie withdrew to the kitchen and put the kettle on, to steady herself. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?” she called.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll get a taxi to Gloucester station.”
She was too tired to argue. As she poured a glass of cola, hoping at least to keep him alive, she heard him making a phone call. Then he appeared in the doorway in his coat, smiling sheepishly.
“Be about fifteen minutes. Thanks for everything, you’re a real friend,” he said. “Thing is, Rosie, I’m a bit stuck. You couldn’t lend me some money, could you? Say thirty quid?”